We met on a tourist-packed sidewalk in front of the general store. My eyes searched for him while everything else turned into a kaleidoscopic blur. His online profile was etched deeply in my mind so I knew for whom I searched. From the three photos through which I continuously swiped the preceding days, I knew his eyes, his ears, his nose, his joy and, somehow, his spirit. I’m almost certain that he knew nothing about me or that I had been cyberstalking him for days while absentmindedly drinking my coffee or watching tv.

When I spotted him, he was with his sister. They seemed so far away from the spot were I stood with my friend, Nancy. They looked calm and snuggled with one another as only the closest of siblings would. Nancy and I, both crowd-averse, looked anxious and determined to cut our way to him through the mesh of humans that surrounded us. Eventually and gradually, with my eyes locked on him, the mass of awed tourists and squealing children swept us up and carried us towards the boy who would eventually break my heart.

I’m usually cautious. I’m therapy-level noncommittal. My con list is always longer than my pro list, and I can’t make decisions. I would never go home with someone that I just met at a bar. And I would never take home someone that I had just met on a crowded sidewalk. But, that day, I was so lonely. The ink on my divorce papers had dried months earlier and I was preparing to move to a tiny farmhouse that was 5 miles from the nearest grocery store. So, that day, as my heart raced and the noisy city sidewalk faded into a muffled buzz in my ears, I threw my caution and pro-con list into the abyss, and invited the groggy and indifferent boy to come home with me. His name was Beau.

Over the years, Beau and I settled into a comfortably co-dependent life together. He took up too much space in the bed, and I let him. I cried into his head during sad movies, and he let me. I gave him the last bite of my sandwiches even though I was still hungry. And, he would run errands with me even though he preferred other activities. In the mornings, before leaving for work, I would say too many goodbyes and give too many kisses. And, in the evenings, I would rush home for our cherished daily stroll together. On adventurous weekends, we would hang our heads out the car windows while winding around mountain roads. On lazy weekends, we would contentedly sit on the front porch and watch the world go by, occasionally howling together with the sirens of passing ambulances.

When he got sick, I went to the doctor with him. I wrapped my arm around him and he shivered against me as I unapologetically explained to the doctor that we were codependent. The doctor knowingly shook his head then delivered the fatal news. As my heart gripped, I tried to ward off tears by focusing on the doctor’s long, unkept eyebrows. But, the distraction was temporary and ultimately ineffective, so I cried. With attempted warmness and understanding, the doctor put his hand on my shoulder and a box of tissues within my reach. Then, he left the room.

Tears, snot and muffled cries fell from my face and onto Beau’s head. Being accustomed to providing emotional support to his highly emotional friend, he briefly let me cry into his head and then with a sigh, he indicated he was ready to go home. He hurriedly rushed to the car, pulling me along while my body heroically resisted crashing into the pavement. Once to the car, he curled up on the sun-warmed backseat, and I heavily sank into the driver’s seat. I pulled my phone from my purse, opened my Favorites and touched the word “Mom.” When she answered the phone, I tried to tell my mom the news, but I was crying too hard to speak. It was minutes before I could tell her the reason for my call. Finally, through loud, breathless sobs, I told her that Beau was dying.

With numbered days and heavy hearts, we went about our remaining time together. I would let him ride in the front seat to the grocery store and he would let me put my arm around him as we sat on the front porch. I cooked him steak and bought him rotisserie chickens. We drove around mountain roads, catching the wind with wide eyes. We went for evening strolls together, slowly and steadily, achieving a state of mindfulness and presence only available to the greatest of Zen masters. I let him take up the whole bed, and he let me cry into his head. And, he let me cry into his head. And, he let me cry, cry, cry into his head.

When he died, we both knew it was time. We talked about it. Being codependent, we had to tell each other that we would be alright without each other. I had told him before that I would be ok without him, but I never really believed it. The night that he died, I knew that he needed to die more than I needed him to live. And, selflessly, I let him go. I thanked him for teaching me about joy, presence, selflessness and pure, unconditional love. And one last time, Beau, my beloved Carolina rescue dog, let me cry, cry, cry into his head.

I had been looking at acceptably deceptive online profiles for over a year. I was searching for my perfect match, and grudgingly surrendering bits of hope with the passing of each day. Occasionally, one would pop up that I thought might have potential. But, deep in my heart, I knew that it wasn't right for me. Day in and day out, I scrolled through the short list of profiles vying for my attention, their eagerness radiating through the bright light of my phone's smudged and dusty screen. Day in and day out, I reached the end of the list and sighed. Finally, I would defeatedly click my phone's "off" button, effectively shutting out their false gleam of hope before it had time to infuse and infect my purposely discouraged self. Day in and day out, this was my morning ritual, taken before my coffee or my morning pee. Then, one day last week, there was a change in the path of my morning journey from hopeful to hopeless.

It began as always. I woke up, grabbed my phone off of my bedside table and robotically clicked on the link of potential matches that appeared in my inbox every morning. Half-asleep, I expected to quickly glance over the list, feel briefly disappointed and then go about my day. But, as I glanced, something caught my eye. A potential match. My heart lifted in the hopes that I had just found a piece to the puzzle of my future.

I called Chris. "I think I found a house!" The words exploded from my mouth as my heart threatened to explode from my chest. Then, I called my realtor and made plans to view the house on Sunday, the following day.

Until that point, my yearlong search for the perfect house had been fruitless and lacking in such excitement. It was a seller's market, houses were moving fast despite being overpriced for what they were and worst of all, I was picky and unwilling to budge. I loved older houses, but finding older houses that had masterfully escaped the rampage of some well-intentioned homeowner's attempts at renovation was rare. I loved older houses for their sturdy build and for their sometimes-humble, sometimes-ornate craftsmanship from all-natural materials. And, I loved older houses for their quirks.

It's their quirks that tickle my imagination. Their quirks force me to see their beauty where others may not. Quirks -- like the slight crookedness in the bottom row of my boyfriend's teeth. Quirks -- like the tiny, linear scar that smiles back at me from above his chin. It's quirks that bring out beauty and banish the mundane.

And, I just knew this 1960s' house had exciting and enticing quirks, and my search for a home was coming to an end.

On Sunday, Chris and I arrived a few minutes early to explore around the house. The land felt like that of my childhood home. We separated and explored the property alone. I crossed a slightly warped footbridge over a tiny stream into a clearing in the woods. I sat down on an old bench and looked over the property. As my imagination started to take hold, I heard Chris call from the workshop. He had climbed up into the storage loft and, with an ear-to-ear grin, poked his head from the open window."This shop is awesome", he yelled.

The realtor arrived and we finally got to see the house with all of its quirks. It had a tiny bathroom and a long, narrow bedroom. Some sections of the hardwood floor didn't match neighboring sections of the hardwood floor. The attic beams were a beautiful deep auburn, a hidden beauty of which only the homeowners would know. The house had an above-ground pool cleverly masked by a well-built deck. I scoffed and turned my nose up at the innocent pool steadfastly balanced on the gentle slope at the bottom of the mountain. Then I pictured myself sunbathing nude (because there were few neighbors) by the large trashy vessel of water. And, suddenly, its quirkiness and unapologetic presence made me love it even more. I dreamed of the house, but mostly I dreamed of its quirks and how I would learn to love its quirks more than I loved its perfections.

When we got home, I mentally started packing up my rental house. Every time, I looked out of my kitchen window at the peaceful stone Buddha sitting in my garden, I would think, "I can't forget you, Buddha. You're going to love it there." I started to whittle away at my pantry, attempting to consume all of my dried beans and boxes of pasta so that I wouldn't have to move them with me. I was giving an imaginary middle finger to my landlord who, in a Type-A frenzy, snuck into my backyard while I was away last summer and dug up my precious plants of lemon balm, mint and calendula. I searched through my recycling bin for discarded plant and flower catalogues. I was going to plant blueberry bushes, sunflowers, passionflower vines, Japanese maples (for my Buddha) and anything else I could get by hands on and into the inviting soil of my new home. My new home! I could feel it in my bones.

The feeling wouldn't leave. It was a feeling of excitement, hope, anxiety and pressure. It was a feeling that kept me awake at night."Can you sleep?" Chris asked me."No, can you?" I replied."No, I'm excited.""Me, too."

Chris and I laid in bed the night after we saw the house. Neither of us could sleep due to the excitement and anticipation that raced through our minds."I think we should tile around the window and install a shower in the bathroom." he said."Me, too" I replied, pleased that we agreed on a vision for our future bathroom."We might have to put the bed against the other wall in the bedroom. I measured our bed today and I don't think it will fit." I continued."We'll see." he said. Like rice, gleefully showered on a just-wedded couple, full of hope and excitement for the future, we tossed ideas at each other into the night until one or both of us finally fell to sleep.

The next morning, I told my realtor that I wanted to make an offer on the house. He said that he would gather up some documents and call me in a few hours. While I waited for his call, I daydreamed.

I pictured myself meditating next to the cool stream that boldly tumbled down the mountain and proudly gurgled and sang past the house.

I pictured myself with room to breathe. I pictured myself breathing air that was pure from the mountain and the earth. No longer forced to breathe the air of other peoples' dinner and stale car exhaust.

I pictured privacy and quiet. I pictured no longer being conscious of the "beep" of my neighbor's car alarm system signaling her arrival home from work or a late night out at the bar.

I pictured calm. I pictured no longer hearing UNC-A students speeding down my narrow street on their way to the newest, heavily-financed (most likely by someone from Atlanta, Charlotte or New York), industrially adorned (but dismally ordinary) brewery downtown.

I pictured perfection.

I dreamed of our future love, life and travails until my ringing phone startled me back into reality. It was my realtor, with empathy in his voice. I knew what he was calling to say before he even said it. The owner had accepted an offer from another buyer. I acted cool. I pretended that I was a laid-back, easy-going, roll-with-the-punches, ever-positive kind of girl. I thanked him for calling and hung up the phone.

And, then I bawled. In my heart, I was 15 years old again. I had just hung up the phone with Jason Carter**, the 17 year-old boy who starred in my beautiful, teenage vision of my romantic future. He had just informed me that he might like someone else and didn't really care to talk to me on the phone anymore. I had no logical reason to be upset. We had nothing. We had no past. We had no present. And, now, we certainly had no future. I was hormonal. I was devastated. My planned future had just been erased. And, so, I cried. I cried and I cried.

I finally quit sobbing, put on my "No, really, I'm fine" voice and called Chris at work."We didn't get the house." I said, meticulously steadying my voice to hide my emotions."That sucks," he said. "That really sucks."He reassured me that we would find something even better, and then we hung up the phone.

Later that day, as I sat on my living room couch reading a book, I looked out the window and saw Chris walking up the path to my house. I met him at the door. We hugged. And, I cried."Are you crying?" he chuckled"Yea," I sheepishly admitted."Well, here" he said. He handed me a stack of two chocolate chip cookies topped with a tiny nosegay of Spring wildflowers, all tied together with a coarse, jute ribbon ending in a stiff, awkward bow.

"Thank you" I said, plopping back on the couch and shoving cookies into my mouth."Do you like them?" he asked."Sure. They taste like Chips Ahoy." I managed to say as factory-processed cookie crumbs fell from my mouth and into my lap."You know," he said. "The house wasn't perfect. The bathroom was tiny and you dream of a house with a front porch. And, this house didn't have one. It also didn't have much of a view. Plus, all of this has provided a learning experience. We know that we like that area and can now look for our perfect house out there."Like a pouting child with a face full of cookie crumbs, I reluctantly nodded my head in agreement."Look, I have to run some errands, but I'll be back in a little while" he said.We hugged again and then he left.

I watched him walk back down the path away from my rented and resented house. I wiped the crumbs from my lips and out of my lap, bittersweet crumbs falling to the floor. I twirled the nosegay of pale, quiet flowers between my fingers and smiled. Out of all the beautiful and exotic flowers that he had ever given me, these were my favorite. They were simple, sweet and unassuming, tied together by a shiny gold twist-tie. They smelled of empathy, love and hope.

That night, when I went to bed, I left my phone in the living room. In my phone's usual spot, on the bedside table, I placed the tiny, almost dried flowers. And, bathed in their imagined perfumes, I slept peacefully for the first time since I had fallen in and out of love with a perfectly quirky house.

**Name changed to protect myself (because I don't want him to know that I had a crush on him).

I sat next to my grandmother on her front porch. We broke crisp green beans to accompany the evening's highly anticipated country-style steak dinner. After awhile, my grandmother began to sing. As she snapped beans into an aged yellow bowl, she quietly and beautifully sang George Jones's "He Stopped Loving Her Today".

Her gentle, baby-blue eyes wistfully drifted towards the sky as she sang. A memory associated with the song, fished from her almost 100-years-old ocean of memories, erased the present moment - her widowhood, her aching body, the green beans, her granddaughter. She continued to sing the song, as always, in a more joyful tone than the original. When she got to a place in the song where the words failed her, she sang, "Di di di di di" until the song's words floated back to the surface.

In one gnarled and knotted hand, she gripped a bean, suspended in the air. The perfectly-painted, pink fingernails of her other hand tapped rhythm into the air.

"Di di di di di" she sang.

For a brief moment, she forgot that I was there. Then, the present moment returned, drowning the past with one large, unwanted and ill-timed wave. Most likely, to never resurface again. She looked at me, reached over with the hand that was previously providing rhythm for her song and squeezed my smooth, straight fingers. I giggled. Then, in silence and the bittersweet haze of nostalgia, we returned to breaking our beans for dinner.

If I won the lottery, there is one very important thing that I would do. I would save a certain, at this point, undetermined percentage of my winnings for my future nursing home, the place where I will potentially finish out this life. Because when I get too old, too sick, too unstable or too fabulously reckless to live on my own, I'm going to live in the finest damn nursing home that money can buy.

In my finest damn nursing home, I'll eat the finest damn food in the finest damn dining room with other fine, wild and grumpy women who never had children to whom we could burden our care. We'll talk about the men (or women) we have loved and the men (or women) that we have hated. We'll bitch about our aches and pains and giggle about the sorry old men with whom we must share our finest damn nursing space.

Every week, some one will die and a memorial card and flowers will be placed in the reception area. We'll get to a point where our grief will collide with our apathy and conversations of "Did you hear that Mary Lou died?" will obliviously segue into our complaints over the slightly soggy, not-so-fine cornbread and hard, tasteless pinto beans. We will no longer fear cancer and, like escaped prisoners finally caught by the law, will breathe a sad sigh of relief when it finally catches up with us.

Occasionally, one of my home mates will get a visit from a distant, forgotten family member. We'll all sit around, enduring the visitor's looks of disconcertion and sympathy, until she pulls the promised bottle of whiskey from her fancy city bag and sets it on the table. Our heads will bob through the childish patronizing conversation. Our minds will wonder why our friend tolerates such a floozy of a family member (beyond her promised delivery of a fine bottle of whiskey). And, our cataract-clouded eyes will remain firmly planted on the reassuring, amber bottle until the insufferable person returns to her outside world. When she leaves, we'll pull a bottle of Cabernet from someone's drawer of waist-high cotton panties, stash the bottles of whiskey and wine under the arms of whoever is the least likely to fall among us, and sneak into the lushest, most heavenly flower garden any of us have ever seen in our long lives.

We'll always go to the same spot, behind tall boxwoods where the nurses can't see. A ring of chairs that are only slightly uncomfortable on our brittle bones and cartilage-less joints. The new gardeners, the ones fresh out of landscape design school, will peek at us with looks of fear in their eyes, defensively gripping their hedge pruners as if our old age was going to jump out, grab them and pull them into our circle. The old gardener, the one who knows our secrets, will glance around the garden, sneak behind the boxwoods, and crouch down into an enviable squat somewhere in our circle. Then, someone will pass him the bottle of whiskey. He'll take a deep whiff, say "Ahhhh", and then "That smells real good, ladies, but you know I can't drink on the job."

We'll shoot the shit for awhile, each of us desperately, unsuccessfully, trying to remember how to flirt. Shortly, he will return to pruning the hedges, the lurking young'uns will migrate to another part of the garden, then we'll go back to drinking our toasty golden whiskey and ruby-red wine. Some of us will fall into a peaceful slumber. Some of us will talk to each other. Some of us will talk to our selves. And, some of us will fight through our unfortunate disbelief to talk to some type of god, our best and only hope for when the cancer, heart disease or atherosclerosis finally wins the battle.

In the evening, we'll put on our finest clothes if we feel like it. And, we'll put on our pajamas if we don't. We'll file into the dining room where John Coltrane softly spills from the speakers. None of the workers are in a rush to get us fed and away because they work at the finest damn nursing home earning the finest damn wages in the world. They joyfully bring us our mostly fine food and patiently wait as we talk to one another or plaintively hum Naima to ourselves, dribbling guiltlessly greasy food onto our chins and into our white linen-napkined laps.

Sometimes, they will bring in a pianist or a children's choir for after-dinner entertainment. Preferring Coltrane, Ornette or Marvin to the piano or the unending chaos of untrained children in song, some of us will retreat to our rooms. Some will finish our evening in the big room with the big TV and big, comfortable, overstuffed couches. Others of us will return to our garden.

By this time of day, dusk, the gardeners will be gone. We'll sit with our legs wide open, elastic-less socks bunched around our ankles and food full in our bellies as the evening's entertainment winds around the young pear trees, through the trained rose bushes, behind the tall, fragrant boxwoods and into our circle. Some of us will sip on coffee, others tea. The best of us will pass the bottle of whiskey, taking long sips, savoring the flavor as it tickles our lips, burns our throats, warms our bellies and soothes our old, tired souls.

As the sun dips behind the horizon and the moon peeks from behind our final earthly home, we will ease ourselves from our chairs, pull our socks to our knees (whereupon they swiftly fall again) and head back into the home. Once inside, we will give each other hugs or nods or kisses or sly pinches on saggy asses and shuffle off towards our beautifully decorated rooms.

Since I will have the finest damn corner room, I will have the farthest to walk. As I slowly, carefully walk, I will reflect on my life, thank god that I won the lottery, fart, burp, scratch an itch that I've never publicly scratched before and finish humming Naima as I enter the finest damn nursing home room that money can buy.

Let's tell the truth to people. When people ask, 'How are you?' have the nerve sometimes to answer truthfully. You must know, however, that people will start avoiding you because, they, too, have knees that pain them and heads that hurt and they don't want to know about yours. But think of it this way: If people avoid you, you will have more time to meditate and do fine research on a cure for whatever truly afflicts you.

-Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

Yesterday, as I had just started talking to two coworkers, I felt my longtime arch-nemesis, Anxiety, enter my coworker's tiny, suddenly airless office. I felt her arrival in every part of my being. I felt my bright, red blood seep through my skin and burn across the surface of my face. I felt my heart begin to race, and I heard each of its quickening beats echoing in my ears. As if controlled by a switch, I felt my brain turn off all extraneous thoughts except for the only one that mattered.

"Fight or flight?"

Even with my brain in survival mode and unsure of its ultimate decision, I continued to talk. Random words that formed unintelligible sentences poured from my mouth. I heard the words and knew they made no sense, but continued to talk.

As my brain slowly regained its ability to reason, and in between my thoughts of, "Oh, shit, did that really just happened?", I desperately tried to come up with possible explanations for my sudden departure from my coworker's office. I thought about saying that I was about to vomit or that I had a mini seizure or that sometimes my brain goes haywire and causes me to speak gibberish. I tried to come up with anything to explain myself. Anything, that is, except the truth.

In order to hide what I perceived to be an embarrassing truth about my self, I spent a ridiculous amount of time concocting just as embarrassing lies about my self. Telling distant and unfamiliar lies seemed so much easier than telling a truth that lives deep in my core. Telling a coworker that I was about to shit my britches seemed so much easier than telling him of my truth, that I have a terrible, stinky, runny case of social anxiety disorder.

In some form or another, I think that social anxiety has always been a part of me. (I don't really like considering it a disorder so I'm going to drop that particular word from this particular disorder that I have.) I have always been a shy person, but my shyness was never an extremely debilitating condition. As a child, I can remember hiding behind my parents legs, the curtains, a potted plant, anything, in order to avoid the stares and conversations of well-meaning adults. I also tried to run away from home at the age of eight when my mom invited Ratalie Neid* over to play with me. And, when Bistin Kenneman* came over to play once, I broke the head off of her Barbie and told her, "I'm going downstairs to watch American Bandstand… don't follow me." But, overall, I was able to function as a fairly normal (in a weird way) kid and teenager.

Some time during my freshman year of college, I was put on anti-depressants. I honestly don't remember the reason behind it. Part of me thinks that it was because I listened to the Cure, wore all black and wrote poetry. Part of me thinks that I may have really been depressed. And, then, part of me thinks that I may have really been depressed because I listened to the Cure, wore all black and wrote poetry. Regardless of the reason, in my very early 20s, I began to take a tiny, magical tablet every single day of my life. For the next 15 years. Throughout those years, I remained shy and introverted, but I never blushed and I never felt extreme anxiety around people. Throughout those years, I forgot what it was like to have social anxiety. Indeed, I forgot that I even had it all.

In my mid-thirties, when my grandmother and both of my beloved dogs died and when I was going through a divorce and preparing to move from the city where I had lived for almost 20 years and when I had just been robbed at gun point and was secretly dating two different men at the same time, I decided to quit taking anti-depressants. Looking back, I have no idea why I chose the most tumultuous time of my life so far to go off of the pills, but I did. And, I'm glad that I did. Throwing away my crutches and fully experiencing every thing that was happening to me thrust me into a deep, dark pit, in which I allowed myself to wallow for only a short time. Then, without any outside help (except for self-help books and wine, lots and lots of wine), I pulled together all of my resources and began to get reacquainted with my self.

As I learned more about the real, unmedicated me, I felt free and invincible. I took solo road trips, signed up for art classes, proudly told nurses that I was on no medication, dated two men at once (Oh, did I already mention that? It really wasn't that cool) and dined solo at fancy restaurants. Eating alone in nice restaurants (without either of those two men) made me feel strong, confident and liberated. Until one night when an unexpected visitor joined me at my table.

Just as the waiter was taking my order, the visitor tapped me on my shoulder and, uninvited, sat down next to me. I felt myself blush. The awareness that I was blushing stunned me into an immediate realization of my visitor's identity. The unwelcome guest, who had just sat down at my grand table for one, was my long-forgotten social anxiety.

It was as if someone who had walked out of my life 15 years ago without a single word was all of a sudden sitting at my dinner table like no time had passed at all. I was unable to eat my dinner that night. The wind had been stolen from my sails, and I had to figure out how to continue my journey with this new and unwelcome first mate. With me as the captain of my ship and my social anxiety by my side, we took to the open seas.

Together, we sailed.

And, together we sail. Most of the time, we float along, largely unaware of each others presence. Those are the times when, not only do I feel like a normal human being (i.e. a human who does not have social anxiety or a disorder, in my narrow opinion), but I feel better than my normal. I feel grounded, strong and alive.

But, just as weather patterns can suddenly and unpredictably change resulting in a raging and turbulent sea, so can my relationship with my social anxiety. When triggered, without warning, she knocks me off of my feet, leaving me unable to find the ground. While being tossed about and unable to gain my footing, I desperately search for lifelines, but never can any be found. As my feet reach for ground and my hands grope for stability, the violent waves continue to control every part of my being. Sometimes, the turbulence ends only when I find a means of escape. Sometimes, I simply have to ride out the storm into smoother seas. Either way, I end up feeling exhausted, weak, uncertain and embarrassed.

I don't really want this to sound overly serious. I mean, sure, it's terrifying to have anxiety hijack every part of my self just because I happen to be around other people. And, it's challenging having social anxiety sit like a heavy weight on my shoulders, not allowing me to move in any direction, but inward. But, on the positive side, having social anxiety has helped me weed out friends and, when I'm able to laugh at myself (which is so important because, really, I need to lighten the fuck up), some of my experiences make for some humorous stories.

Like the time that I actively tried to make friends by going to see a Michael Jackson cover band with a group of women whom I'd never met before. My friends who know me well find it tremendously funny (A) that I even went in the first place… not really my thing (hey, I was trying to branch out), and (B) that I walked 1.5 miles home at 11pm just to escape a large venue full of women who were excitedly dancing and screaming at the feet of a cheesy Michael Jackson impostor.

Don't get me wrong; sometimes, I would kill to be that type of person. The type of person that does not give one ounce of a fuck and can have fun no matter what. But, sadly, I'm not. And, that night, there was no riding out the storm; my only option was to abandon ship. So, without a word to any of the other women, I slipped out of the venue and blissfully walked home in solitude.

Truthfully, solitude is where I am happiest. Unfortunately, I can't spend my entire life hiding out from people. It wouldn't be healthy anyway. The more time that I spend alone, the harder it gets for me to be around others. So, I have to practice.

The days when I pull my car into the grocery store parking lot and have trouble getting out of my car to go into a huge warehouse full of people and food (I do it for the food), I have to practice. There have been times that I've pulled up to the grocery store and thought, "No, I can't do this." Then, I turned around, drove home and ate canned beans and boiled potatoes for dinner. Other times, I take a few deep breaths, and commit to finish what I set out to accomplish -- buying food.

That is practice.

When I walk places, instead of driving, so that I can slow down, be mindful and stay grounded. That is practice.

When I get out of my head so that I can simply enjoy another person's presence. That is practice.

When I remember that all people aren't just out to get me. That is practice.

When I make small talk with strangers. That is practice.

When I meditate daily to keep me present. That is practice.

When I realize that I need outside help and seek guidance. That is practice.

When my boyfriend leaves me at a social gathering to go to the bathroom, and I talk myself through not freaking out. That is practice.

When I simply breathe my way through whatever (people) life throws at me. That is practice.

When I am able to tell someone that I didn't shit my britches, that, instead, I have social anxiety. That is practice.

And, when I share this truth, that is practice too.

* Names changed to protect those who might have been traumatized by having me as a childhood friend.

My body was curled into a tight ball in the upper-left quadrant of my expansive, king-sized bed. The right side of my bed was as unruffled as a newly made hotel bed, immaculately waiting for its next guest. My legs ached the way they never ached when I was younger. I slowly, creakily stretched my legs towards the bottom of the bed, anticipating the sweet relief of stretching my synovially-stagnanted knees. Midway through my stretch, as my locked joints eased themselves into release, my feet collided with a big, warm lump that stretched across the whole lower-left quadrant of my proudly spacious bed.

Such failed attempts to fully stretch my legs was not unfamiliar. Several months ago, my dog had decided that he belonged on the left side of our bed. Since he had made this decision, my early morning awareness that I was sleeping in an awkward and uncomfortable position was becoming increasingly common.

I flattened the toes of my feet into a lever and slowly slid them under my dog. He shifted and grunted, but continued his slumber. Then, slowly, my feet valiantly attempted to pry the 70-lb dog away from his recently-claimed area of the bed. He shot up in aggravation, slumped to the right side of the bed, then plopped down into a grumpy heap of fur. After his theatrics were complete, he let out a long sigh. Simply for effect.

Surely no more than 10 minutes had passed when I awoke to a heavy weight pushing my shins into my calves into the weary support of my aged mattress. Sleepily, I raised my head to find my dog's big, dopey, dream-filled head resting peacefully on my legs as his pillow. His jowls, like two thick, rubbery slices of bologna, spread out across the hard bones of my shins. Occasionally, a bubbly breath escaped from the slobbery, gaping triangle where his lips met his cheek. His eyelids were shut tight and twitched often, letting me know that he was still alive, but sleeping too soundly to be disturbed. Side-bending sharply from my waist so as not to move my legs, I reached down to rub his ear and twirl its velvety softness between my fingers. He continued to sleep.

Even with my legs poised and ready to abruptly wake my dog in one swift and forceful movement, I decided to let him sleep. I could see no point in both of us being aversely awake and forever fighting for territory in the wee hours of the morning. With my fingertips barely grazing the top of his paw and his furry body radiating warmth to mine, I closed my eyes and fell asleep. If only for a few fleeting minutes more.

In the mid '90s, when I was a wide-eyed, 20 year old living in Atlanta, I met Tom Morello, the guitarist from Rage Against the Machine. Vividly, I remember what I was wearing when I met him. When clothes from the '80s were absolutely no longer cool (oh, how I wish that was still the case), I was wearing an awesomely '80s shirt that had once belonged to my mom. It was a seasick-green shirt with a sort of bib that fell from the high, round neckline (think, sailor shirt) that had been purchased via mail order from the Royal Silks catalog. Even though I had modified the shirt by replacing the bib with a less remarkable collar, I still didn't particularly like the shirt and only wore it out of necessity. My job as a hostess at The Old Spaghetti Factory demanded that I trade in my usual Doc Marten's and baggy jeans for skirts, heels, panty hose and other cast offs from my mother's closet.

The night that I met Tom Morello, I was the last hostess on duty. Tom walked into the restaurant a mere five minutes before closing time. I didn't know who he was, and I was not particularly nice to him because I knew that wherever I seated him in the restaurant, the server assigned to that table would not be particularly nice to me. Tom was very friendly. He asked me how I was doing, and I answered in the low, bored, monotone voice of an annoyed and inconvenienced teenager. Even as I answered him, I realized that he had a pleasant demeanor and that I shouldn't be such an asshole to the kind man who thought it was normal to eat dinner at 11pm. So I asked him how he was doing. In a cool and cordial manner, he explained to me that he had been in the studio recording all day and that he was desperately hungry for a big plate of pasta.

Let me stop here to explain that this meeting occurred at a point in my life where I thought that musicians were gods. Absolute fucking gods. When Tom Morello walked into my life, I was deep in the throes of worshipping the musician gods. So, when Tom told me that he was a musician and that he was a good enough musician to have someone record his music, I was enraptured. My ears perked up, my low, bored, monotone voice quickly morphed into the bright, bubbly tune of a preteen girl, and I was all his. Dreamily, I was going to be his from the moment I left the hostess stand until the moment I sat him at his very special Old Spaghetti Factory table.

As I was walking Tom to his table, he casually asked me to join him for dinner. Since I was getting off work, I (a little less casually) agreed. We sat in the old-fashioned trolley car in the middle of the massively empty, old-world-themed dining area, and talked. As he ate his Pasta Trio, my 20-year old self chattered incessantly about my 20-year old's dreams. I shared with him my grand career aspirations, and I told him of the far-away lands that I wished to explore.

"I want to go to Tangiers," I said."Where?" he asked."Tangiers!" I responded with a, suddenly, proud awareness that I wanted to travel somewhere so exotic that this well-traveled musician had never even heard of it."Oh, you mean Tangier? In Morocco?" He corrected me. I was embarrassed. The shame of my ignorance poured into my heart and rose like red-hot lava through my neck and into my face.

Tom finished his pasta and we left the restaurant together. He walked me to my car and then asked me if I wanted to go to a house party with him where a local band, Bullhead Clap, was playing. For a fleeting second, I was excited. And, then, I remembered what I was wearing. I couldn't go to a house party wearing my mother's modified, but still awesomely 80s shirt. I felt a deep embarrassment over my outfit and, sadly, declined his invitation. He gave me a hug, kissed me on the cheek, turned towards his car, and walked away. I got in my car, closed the door, cursed my silly clothes and headed towards my home.

When I got to my house, I excitedly told my roommate, Lucy, about my religious encounter. Since we practiced the same religion at the time, she matched my excitement and we concocted a plan to stalk Tom Morello from Rage Against the Machine. Being the crafty little stalkers that we were, we discovered that the band was recording their album at Southern Tracks studio on Clairemont Road. The next day, Lucy convinced me to call the studio and nonchalantly ask to speak to Tom. With nervous, sweaty fingers that slipped from the buttons as I dialed, I called Southern Tracks phone number and asked the woman who answered the phone if Rage Against the Machine was recording there. She sternly informed me that they didn't give out that sort of information. Embarrassed, I quickly hung up the phone.

Undeterred and seeing the flaw in our scheme (asking if Rage Against the Machine was recording there instead of informing the call handler that we knew Rage Against the Machine was recording there and then demanding to speak to Tom Morello), we waited a few minutes and Lucy called back. "Hi, yes, I need to speak to Tom Morello", Lucy asserted to the woman who answered the phone.Lucy waited."Yes, I know he is there, and I need to speak to him," she demanded.Lucy waited. Then, rolled her eyes, and slammed down the phone.Slightly shocked by her boldness, I stared at her for just a second. Then, we both collapsed onto the floor in laugher.

With our backs on the floor, our feet on her bed, and the phone in between us, we laughed and re-enacted the phone calls for awhile. Then, we quit giggling and began brainstorming again. All of a sudden, Lucy shot up from the floor. She grabbed her car keys from her dresser and excitedly said, "Come on!" As she was reaching the front door, I caught up with her and asked her where we were going. I thought I heard her say, "To Southern Tracks studios" as she climbed into her car, closed the door and waved through the car window for me to hurry up.

On our way to Southern Tracks, Lucy told me that we were going to drive by the studio and, hopefully, catch Tom Morello outside. He would be outside smoking a cigarette, talking on the phone or just shooting the shit with the rest of his band. You know, the stuff that musicians do while they are recording an album. The idea that he might be inside the studio, actually recording an album, never even crossed our minds.

We drove up and down Clairemont Road several times, certain that we had been misinformed about Southern Tracks' address. At the address that we had scribbled on a crumpled, now sweaty piece of paper, we discovered a small unassuming, little ranch house -- a house that would not be out of place in a 1970s, sweet, suburban neighborhood. Still uncertain that we had the right address, Lucy turned into the driveway of the house. With the car engine running, we sat at the top of the driveway in silence. Staring at the house to the right of the driveway where we idled, we saw no signs of advertisement. Indeed, we saw no signs of life.

Lucy turned to face the driveway and took her foot off of the brake. Her Honda Civic slowly coasted down the driveway and into the large parking area where a suburban, back yard should have been. There were a few cars in the parking area, but no famous musicians standing around outside shooting the shit. Crestfallen, we again sat in silence. I was deep in thought, trying to concoct a new scheme, when I heard Lucy exclaim, "Oh well!" Then, she promptly did a three-point turn and maneuvered her Civic to go back up the driveway that had once, just seconds before, led to a back yard planted with gardens full of hope and excitement. As we crept up the driveway, I stared over my shoulder at the back of the house, earnestly willing a rock god to miraculously emerge from the single, basement door. I watched and willed until, at last, Lucy turned out onto Clairemont Road. Then, sullen, I turned back to face the road. "Wanna go to Target?!?" Lucy cheerfully asked, sensing my disappointment. "Sure" I shrugged as we drove down Clairemont Road and away from my dreams of reuniting with Tom Morello.

For several years after meeting Tom Morello, I maintained my fascination with him. Maybe, I even grew my fascination. Lucy, eventually, started working in the music industry, earning us nice perks, such as free tickets to concerts and backstage passes. When Rage Against the Machine played a show at Phillips Arena in Atlanta, Lucy got us backstage passes. Nervous and full of self-doubt, I saw Tom backstage before the band went on stage. He saw me, too. I looked at him, silently begging him to recognize me. However, not even the slightest bit of recognition crossed his face, and then he was gone.

About a year after seeing Rage Against the Machine play in Atlanta, Lucy and I decided to go see the band in Rome, Italy. Lucy was able to get passes from the band's agent, and we set out, halfway around the world, to see a band to which I considered myself only very minimally acquainted. But, acquainted nonetheless. The trip to Italy was full of mishaps and confusion. We did not get to go backstage. In fact, we didn't even know how to read our tickets. So we ended up sitting in one of the last rows of the arena where we, disappointed and tired, only half-watched the show. Although the experience was an adventure, and the adventure was an experience, it was during our trip to Italy when my fascination with Tom Morello began to wane. It continued to wane. And, then, my fascination melted into mild interest. And, then, my mild interest evaporated into complete disinterest.And, then, I was old.

Yesterday, I awoke from a dream that plunged deep into my subconscious and pulled Rage Against the Machine to the surface. Consciously, I do not remember the dream's story. I just know that I awoke and thought to myself, "Why the fuck am I dreaming about Rage Against the Machine?"

I've been to several Jungian-based dream analysts/therapists over the years so I'm familiar with the Jungian approach to dreams. One theory of dream analysis, according to Jung, proposes that every person/place/object in a dream represents an aspect of the dreamer and/or reveals something about the psyche of the dreamer. So, as I brewed my morning coffee, I thought about my dream using the framework of Jung's theories. Staring out the window and drinking my coffee in silence, I thought about what Rage Against the Machine represents to me. As I slowly drained my coffee cup and then the whole pot of coffee, I realized that Rage Against the Machine represents a period of my life. To me, the band represents a period when life was infinite and full of possibilities. A period when there was plenty of time, in the future, to worry about life partners, careers and passions; in fact, existential questions weren't even a part of us yet. Back then, each moment was about that very moment. We didn't worry about tomorrow, or the next day, or the next month or year. We were in the moment. And we were ageless.

Dreams are important and beautiful gifts from our psyche. I believe that, by manifesting Rage Against the Machine, my subconscious was throwing up a road block into the worry-filled path upon which my conscious currently treads. Instead of constantly worrying about the inevitable passage of time, I need to regain my long-lost sense of agelessness. I need to, once again, feel the sense that anything is possible, the sense of wonder and the lightness of being. I need to regain that voice inside of me that says, "Fuck it, I'm going to try this and see what happens."

For sure, finding and nurturing these parts of me won't be as easy as chasing a rockstar halfway across the world, but once I do, I know that my luggage will be lighter. My journey, more joyful. And the souvenirs, much, much sweeter.

After an emotional day of crying that spilled over into fuzzy numbness, we set out on our holiday weekend trip to the lake. As we walked down the path towards my car, I spotted my sage plants, in full bloom. I bent down to pick a fuzzy, silver sage leaf, hoping that its earthy aroma would revive my spirits. As I pinched the leaf from its plant, I heard the crisp snap of a plant stem breaking behind me.

With the sage leaf pressed tightly to my nose, I turned around to see him twirling a flower between his thumb and index finger. Then, with a calm and caring smile upon his face, he handed me a small raceme lined with the blue, pea-like flowers of the wild indigo plant. We climbed in the car and, like an appeased child with a lollipop in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other, I held the sage and the wild indigo flowers as we drove away from my house.

I love these songs because of the memories that play through my mind every time that I hear them. Memories of...

My brother and I dancing to disco music in the living room while my parents' readied themselves to go out to a real disco.

The Carolina Shag music that often played throughout the house.

My brother and I making up our own juvenile lyrics to "Stop! In the Name of Love", replacing the word "love" with "poop" and the word "heart" with "butt", and then singing it loudly throughout the house. We were lucky to have a mom and dad who just shook their heads and smiled at such antics. I suppose they were happy to have us singing about poop instead of beating it out of one another.

Riding in the car with my mom who, lost in the soft lyrics, whisper-sang "Time after Time" while my brother and I tried unsuccessfully not to burst into backseat laughter.

Wearing out my brother's "Purple Rain" and "1984" albums.

Cringing at having to listen to my mom's Lionel Richie albums and my dad's Willie Nelson albums (yes, Willie is cool now. Willie was not cool to a little girl in love with 80s pop).

Sneaking into my brother's room and listening to his wonderfully intriguing "alternative" mix tapes (The Smiths, The Connells, Dillon Fence, The Clash, The Sundays, The Darling Buds and many others)

The drive from San Diego to San Francisco with my dad and brother where, for some reason, none of us could quit singing, "Moving to the country… gonna eat a lot of peaches". Terribly catching song. And just plain terrible song.

Discovering my brother's hip hop. I so wanted to like The Pharcyde and Tribe Called Quest because my brother did, but it was so different from The Smiths and The Cure. I kept listening, thinking that it might be like coffee or beer and eventually grow on me. I guess it was because, now, Tribe is definitely in my top 10 artists of all time.

My brother's poster of Steel Pulse's True Democracy album fascinated me (it was the dreadlocks). Many years passed before I ever listened to Steel Pulse. Soon after, they also moved into my top 10 artists of all time.

This morning, as I sat on my front porch with the smell of crisp autumn leaves in the cool air, I heard the strangely soothing whine of a chainsaw in the distance. At first, the chainsaw softly buzzed around the remote regions of my subconscious brain. Then, steadily, the buzzing crept into my consciousness, and I was immediately overcome by feelings of nostalgia for my childhood.

There was no person on this earth like Lucy Bryant. Lucy Bryant was still able to dance the Charleston well into her tenth decade of life. She was able to grow the most beautiful vegetables and flowers in the hardest, seemingly most unproductive corners of the earth. She cooked delicious Southern dinners like nobody’s business. Lucy Bryant sewed the finest, most fashionable clothes for many generations of little girls’ Barbie dolls. Lucy Bryant could entertain a whole room of people with stories from any period of her life. Lucy Bryant was my grandmother. I called her Mammaw...

Dear Kaya,I woke up this morning. Thinking of you. I fell back to sleep. Thinking of you. I eventually awoke, crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make my morning coffee. As I approached the living room, I expected to hear the familiar "thump" of your tail as you realized that your mama was awake and headed in your direction. But I didn't hear the "thump". And your bed set cold and empty by the fireplace.